


Fear a Painted Angel

by archea2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Winchesters, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Painting, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt asking for: wincestiel, fluff, bunker domesticity, and a war paint to end all war paints once the boys introduce Cas to the fine art of Home Decorating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear a Painted Angel

"Bunker," Dean had said. "Meaning, a place you bunk in. Meaning, get your buns over here and pick yourself a room."  
  
Castiel had…not fussed, because he was, by nature, celestially unfussed. Castiel had expressed his conviction that, since he did not need any sleep, a bunk featured nowhere near his bare necessities; adding that, just as his original vessel had come with a ©JimmyNovak notice, the bunker had Sam and Dean written on every wood-and-whitewash inch of it.   
  
"Sam,  _Castiel_  and Dean. And now I sound like a freakin' Kellogg's ad."  
  
Sam had chimed in, every inch – yard – the pedagogue. "When two people - that is, when three people love each other very, very much - no, Dean, not the Talk - they feel the need to share. You once told us that God planned no _mine_ and _thine_ for pure spirits. Well, it's, uh, the same with us. Take Dean's Impala -"  
  
"Or don't," Dean muttered. Cas's maiden driving lesson was a memory to be shunned, not shared. Who could have guessed the 0-entry sign doubled as the Enochian symbol for  _faster_?  
  
"We love you." Meanwhile, Sam was waxing lyrical. "We can't live without you - that is, we could, technically, but we...we don't want to. We want you close, Cas. If you're here, then here's home. Ours and yours. Our – hearth," Sam had concluded tentatively, then said _oh_ as Cas walked straight into his Sam-space and pushed his cheek against Sam's ear.   
  
One somewhat moist group hug later, they'd all gone to inspect the hallway. Castiel had pointed his finger to the midpoint between the brothers' respective quarters and said "here". Once past the door, he had looked at each wall in turn, then at the bed, then the brothers, then given the bed another go, pondering the minutiae of bunker etiquette.  
  
"It's still, like, a room of its own. But it's okay, Cas. All you have to do is redecorate."  
  
"Oh yeah. Just ask Sammy here to lend you his Laura Ashley catalogues." One brotherly hand lifted for a vengeful slap; one brotherly rear arching into the swing. Castiel smiled. He felt at home already.  
  
"I think..." He paused. He also felt very new at this _mine_ business.  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"I don't think I like white." It felt raw, impersonal, emptied out of every color whose birth he had witnessed aeons ago, watching the first-ever rainbow at Noah's side. "Could I...could I have blue walls instead?"  
  
Dean's grin lit up their way to the nearest Wilko store. Dean's half-proud, half-hopeful look as Sam launched into a Cerulean v. Majorelle case, objecting to textures and appealing to Castiel's sixth sense of blue, lit up his heart. Dean touched his elbow before he strode out, and Castiel caught and cherished the silent thanksgiving.  
  
"You're next," he told Sam firmly, leaving him to another  _oh_  and the - still uncarried - buckets of paint.

 

* * *

 

"I'm next?" he found himself asking sixty minutes later.  
  
Sam nodded back with gusto. Sam really had no call to look so...sinfully comfortable, barefoot in a hair ribbon and very little else.   
  
"First rule in the Book of Dean: thou shalt not wear trousers when painting a room. Or washing a car. Or...anything goes, really."  
  
"Is there a second rule?" Castiel asked wrily, struggling out of his shirt.   
  
"Thou... shalt covet thy untrousered neighbour?" Sam leapt aside as a splash of blue landed on the patch of wall behind him. "Whoa, tiger!"  
  
Dean, tugging up his shorts one-handedly, waved his brush. "You started it!"  
  
" _Brat._ " Sam bent over to dip his own foam roll into the paint. Then whipped around and went for the kill. Where there had been a sun-shaped tattoo on Dean's manly chest, there now was a blue squiggle. Castiel blinked, caught in a flash-still of his early days. The Picts, it seemed, had nothing on the Winchesters.   
  
He watched as Dean - " _En garde!_ " - lunged across the room, and Sam docked, and Dean blocked, and the two of them nearly knocked each other flat over a half-full bucket. If there was method in their madness, Castiel could not see it. The fight had a Goliath-and-David simplicity to it that was rather endearing and spoke of time-tested reflexes: parry, slam, parry, slam, repeat ad lib. At one point, Sam dropped his roll and went for finger-painting. Dean met him halfway, rubbing the stuff over Sam's cheeks. Then Sam got hold of  _Dean_ 's brush, and ("Dude! Not the way to get me off!") pinned him to the wall, spinning his trophy high in the...  
  
"CAS WINCHESTER, MOVE YOUR BLESSED ASS!"  
  
It was the name, Cas would think in retrospect. The human, all too human name, proclaiming him as one of them. He lunged into the space between.  
  
...air to bear it down, _flap_ into Castiel's face.   
  
"Oh my god," Sam squeaked.  
  
"I..." Even Dean, miracle of miracles, was left speechless.  
  
Castiel gazed upon them, his face impenetrable under its new blue cast. Then, slowly, irrevocably, he raised his right hand.  
  
The entire content of the buckets that was not on the floors, shorts, chests, legs, hair and, incidentally, walls of their immediate perimeter rose along. It soared vertically, two rippling curtains not unlike a blue rerun of the Red Sea, coaxing a gulp from Dean.  
  
Castiel grinned and flipped his hand.  
  
On the tock of that tick, he felt his shoulder gripped by a hand, fist-tight, pulling him in. Then a very loud, very wet sound enveloped them, while Castiel blessed the First Rule of the Book of Dean. They collapsed to the floor together, glued to one another in sea-blue stickiness and crazy giggles.   
  
"Holy... wave of intent!" said Dean, typically bagging the last word.

 

* * *

  
  
In the end, Sam bundled them all into the shower. The shower, rigged up at a time when the average Man of Letters totaled a decent 5'7'' and did not share his ablutions, bore their presence stoically. So did Castiel. Hot water - the sensation of it on bare skin, prickling it with a newborn sense of life - was still a source of wonder. As were Sam's hands, questing softly, indefatigably over the planes of his neck, his back, his lower back, round and under and – _oh_ – between, easing his cheeks apart for that featherlight play of finger to his hole. Castiel arched sharply, met Dean full front. The heat was everywhere now, but it couldn't melt the hard stand of Dean's cock, each vein delectably palpable as he pushed himself up between Castiel's upper thighs.  
  
"Gonna clean the two of you," he said, reaching around for Sam's hip. "And then, gonna paint you all over again. Want me to? Cas? Want me to spill that sweet load home?"  
  
Castiel moaned, his heart pounding, _coming_ , swirled by Sam's long sigh.

"Home," he rasped happily.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title quote courtesy of Shakespeare ("Fear a painted devil", Macbeth).


End file.
